Up from the Ground, From a Million Little Pieces
by Lys ap Adin
Summary: Yamamoto is an optimist. Gokudera isn't. Yamamoto x Gokudera, future fic, shameless domesticity and boys being idiots.


**Title:** Up from the Ground, From a Million Little Pieces**  
Characters/Pairings:** Yamamoto/Gokudera**  
Summary:** Yamamoto is an optimist. Gokudera isn't.**  
Notes:** General audiences; let us assume the boys are college-aged and post-TYL arc. 4105 words of domesticity and boys being stupid at each other. Title totally, totally gacked from Cloud Cult, since I'm shameless like that.

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**Up from the Ground, From a Million Little Pieces**

The sky had been threatening all afternoon, but it didn't decide to rain until Hayato and Yamamoto were well away from the Tenth's place. When it finally did, though, it did so with a vengeance, opening up and pouring down buckets of rain in sheets and gusts and big fat drops of rain that cut right through all the layers Hayato was wearing and soaked him to the skin in about a minute. Hayato cursed, but Yamamoto just laughed like an idiot, throwing his face up to the sky as the rain pelted down.

It figured; they weren't that far from Yamamoto's little apartment, and it wasn't like he was going to be cold and wet any longer than he wanted to be. Hayato glared at him, but Yamamoto didn't even seem to notice, not until they were standing at the corner where Yamamoto usually turned and Hayato went ahead, and he said, "Wanna stop at my place till it eases off?"

The wind chose that moment to blow a gust of rain right down the back of Hayato's collar, which was more persuasive than anything Yamamoto might have added to the offer. "Yeah, sure," Hayato told him, and followed Yamamoto to the little shoebox of a place he called an apartment. It was up four floors and was barely big enough to turn around in, but it was dry, which was all Hayato really cared about at the moment.

"Just sit at the table," Yamamoto told him, when they'd kicked off their shoes. "Let me grab some towels, and then I'll make tea." He disappeared into the apartment's other room.

"I don't want any tea," Hayato called after him, squelching across the floor and sitting at the kitchen table.

"Of course you want tea," Yamamoto said, emerging and dropping a towel on Hayato's head and another on the table. "It's just the thing to warm you up!"

Hayato growled at him and clawed the towel out of his eyes, and tried to squeeze some of the water out of his hair as Yamamoto moved around his tiny kitchen, filling up an electric kettle and plugging it in. "If you like tea," he muttered, watching Yamamoto taking down canisters from the cupboard and comparing them, before deciding on one and putting the rest back.

For a guy who practically made a religion out of how laid-back he was, Yamamoto Takeshi sure managed to be anal retentive about some things, Hayato decided, hunching his shoulders against the chill in the air and glaring at Yamamoto some more, which worked about as well as it ever did.

Which is to say that Yamamoto didn't even notice, and carried on with setting out a teapot and fishing a spoon out of a drawer. He didn't even have the decency to be shivering, although the apartment was cool and he was just as soaked through as Hayato, and hadn't even bothered with the towel he'd brought out for himself.

Hayato's own towel was pretty well done for. He wondered whether Yamamoto was planning on claiming his any time soon, and was about to the point where he wasn't going to hold himself responsible for his own actions if Yamamoto didn't.

For the time being, though, he pulled his damp towel tighter, focusing on keeping his teeth from chattering, and said, "For fuck's sake, what's taking so long?"

Yamamoto gave him a sunny smile. "Going as fast as I can," he said, over the low murmur of the electric kettle, from where he was filling up the teapot with hot water from the tap, and God only knew why.

"Can't you just shove a couple of mugs in the microwave like a normal person?" Hell, if he'd known that Yamamoto's offer of a cup of tea was going to be this much of a production, he'd have insisted on passing on it.

The look Yamamoto gave him made Hayato feel like he'd just kicked a puppy, or something, because he looked sincerely appalled by the question. "That's not how you should make tea," he said, firmly, as the kettle clicked off.

"The hell it's not," Hayato said, and hugged his towel closer.

"It's not." Yamamoto dumped the water out of the teapot. "I bet you use tea bags, too," he added, as he refilled it from the kettle.

"What the fuck's wrong with tea bags?" Hayato demanded, as Yamamoto measured out spoonfuls of loose tea and poured them into the teapot, and then covered the thing over with... Hayato had _heard_ of tea cozies, but only in books from about a century ago, and he would have sworn that they weren't things than anyone ever actually _used_ anymore, except that apparently Yamamoto did. The freak.

"Nothing," Yamamoto said, setting a timer as Hayato mentally reclassified Yamamoto as a big damn _girl_. Not that this was actually news, though it was nice to have proof. "But it's definitely not tea."

"...whatever," Hayato told him, watching him reach into another cupboard for a pair of tea cups, solid earthenware things that were reassuringly masculine in the face of the fucking tea cozy. "What the fuck are you doing now?"

Yamamoto shrugged as he filled them with hot water from the kettle. "Warming up the cups," he said, as if this were self-evident. Maybe it was, to a tea lunatic.

"Right," Hayato said, hunching his shoulders some more, wrapping his arms around himself and grumbling under his breath. He could have been home by now, if he'd made a run for it, instead of sitting here in clammy clothes, waiting for an idiot to make him tea.

And he was still going to have to get home, later, probably in the rain, which drummed against the roof and windows like it wasn't ever going to stop.

Hell, maybe they were both idiots.

Yamamoto reached for his towel and rubbed his hair briskly, and walked out of the kitchen without a word as he did. When he came back, all his hair was standing on end, and he offered Hayato a fresh towel without a comment. Hayato was saved from having to say anything by the chime of the timer, and the fact that Yamamoto grinned and announced, "Perfect timing!"

He dumped the water out of the cups and poured tea for both of them. "It's about time," Hayato informed him, accepting the cup from him and wrapping his fingers around it, letting the heat of the earthenware leech into his fingers.

"Can't rush perfection," Yamamoto told him, and took the other seat at the table.

"Right," Hayato said, staring suspiciously at his cup; there were _leaves_ floating around in the depths of it. He'd never had that problem with tea bags, that was for damn sure. It smelled like it was green tea, too, which he wasn't actually a fan of, and he wondered whether he could get away with just a few polite sips and using the cup as a hand warmer.

Meanwhile, Yamamoto was inhaling the steam from his cup, eyes closed, with every evidence of enjoyment. Then he took a drink, savoring it like a fine wine, apparently oblivious to the fact that there were still leaves floating around in there. "Oh, that's good," he sighed.

Sometimes, Hayato really wondered about Yamamoto.

Anyway, now Yamamoto was watching him, so Hayato steeled himself and took a drink. And blinked. "Huh," he said, against the smoky flavor of the tea, "it _is_ good." He'd never had a green tea that wasn't too bitter by half, but this wasn't, even if it did have bits of leaf swirling through it.

"Told you that you can't rush perfection," Yamamoto said, the smugness rolling off him in waves.

Hayato grunted at him and carried on with his tea, appreciating the warmth of it as it radiated out from his stomach, and didn't say anything when Yamamoto got up after a bit to start another pot. Yamamoto might have a point after all, but that didn't mean Hayato had to acknowledge it out loud.

Besides, any man who owned his own tea cozy didn't need any extra encouragement.

Yamamoto was smart enough not to pester him with idle chatter when Hayato was already irritated by the cold and the rain, and didn't speak up until Hayato was perhaps half of the way through his second cup of tea. "Feeling better now?"

Hayato supposed he was, damp clothes notwithstanding. "I guess," he muttered, hitching his towel a little closer and considering the time, and the fact that it didn't sound like the rain was tapering off at all. "I should probably get going."

"There's no rush," Yamamoto said, with a faintly wry twist to his mouth, but carried on when Hayato started to shake his head. "Or maybe there is. You want to change into something dry, at least?"

"Whatever I change into is just going to get soaked, too," Hayato said, but Yamamoto was already standing up and gesturing at him to follow.

"Yeah, if you're worried about _that_, you should just stay till the rain stops," Yamamoto told him, as Hayato set his cup down and followed him into the disaster area that was Yamamoto's bedroom. Yamamoto ignored the mess and pawed through the closet, and pulled out a pair of jeans.

Hayato caught them when Yamamoto tossed them to him. "Listen to that rain," he said. It was drumming against the roof, a steady dull roar of it. "I don't think it's going to stop till morning."

"So what's your point?" Yamamoto tossed him a t-shirt with long sleeves to go with the jeans. "I don't mind if you don't."

Hayato was sure he _didn't_, but that wasn't the point. "You don't have anywhere for me to sleep, idiot."

"Futon's plenty big enough for two," Yamamoto said, with all the assurance of a man who knew exactly what he was talking about, which--argh, Hayato really wished he hadn't just heard that. "I could cook! Would be a good night for soup, don't you think?"

"Yeah, how about 'no'?" Hayato suggested.

Yamamoto's smile went just the faintest bit sardonic. "Suit yourself," he said. "If you want, you can leave the wet stuff in the bathroom." He turned away and stripped out of his own shirt, just like that.

Hayato cut his eyes away, hastily, from the casual flex of Yamamoto's arms and back. "Yeah, thanks," he said, and retreated to the bathroom as Yamamoto's hands dropped to his belt.

It was more of a relief than he'd expected it to be when he'd stripped out of his cold, wet jeans and the layers of his shirts and toweled off briskly, and even better to put on clothes that were dry. The jeans were just about the right length, though loose in the thighs and the waist--well, Yamamoto still did lots of stupid athletic crap, which explained the baggy fit of the jeans and the t-shirt. They felt good, though, and warm against his skin, especially when he compared them to the clothes he'd spread over the towel rack to drip on the floor.

The rain beating against the roof sounded that much louder as he contemplated having to go back out into it.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Yamamoto was standing at the back door of his apartment, the one that opened onto a tiny shelf and railing that purported to be a balcony. He'd changed into a yukata, one that was dark blue and framed the lines of his shoulders and hips to startlingly good effect. "It looks like it might let up, if you want to wait a little longer," he said, without looking around.

"Aren't you just the eternal optimist?" Hayato replied.

"Hahah, maybe, but I really think it will!" Yamamoto turned and gave him a cheerful smile. "Besides, I'm the Rain, I know these things."

"Yeah, and I'm the Storm, and I say you're full of shit," Hayato told him, and then was distracted by the sound of the electric kettle clicking off. "Christ, are you making _more_ tea?"

"Nothing better for a night like this." Yamamoto took the one long step away from the door into the kitchen proper, and fussed with pouring the water and measuring out the tea. He hadn't bothered to cinch up the yukata's sash to be formal, so it hung loose and open against his chest; the length of his stride showed a flash of his calves and knees. "Seriously, I'm sure it's going to ease off fairly soon. Just give it a chance, huh?"

Hayato looked out at the rain, which was coming down hard enough to draw a grey veil between them and the building opposite Yamamoto's, and snorted. "Optimistic to the point of stupid," he said, as a gust of wind knocked a sheet of rain against the glass, and the rattle of it drowned out the sounds of Yamamoto moving around his kitchen.

The contrast of it made the apartment feel that much warmer.

"I mean it!" Yamamoto insisted, opening a cabinet and taking down a bag of rice.

"Sure you do." The timer dinged, and Yamamoto poured the tea--two cups of it, Christ. He left the one on the counter, and took a sip from the other as he began measuring out the rice. "I have pork cutlets," he said, as if absently. "I could make katsudon."

The wind blew another sheet of rain against the building, and Hayato sighed, coming away from the bathroom's threshold and picking up the second cup of tea since there was no sense in letting it go to waste. "You really are a big damn girl, you know that?"

"Hah, girls are tough," Yamamoto said, like he thought that had been a compliment or something, and began running water over the rice to rinse it. Hayato watched him working with it, swirling it in a bowl till the water ran clear before he set it aside to drain. Then Yamamoto turned to the refrigerator, rummaging through it and taking out vegetables and eggs and the plastic-wrapped tray of meat.

Yeah, Hayato thought, resigned, he might as well have said _yes_ in the first place, since Yamamoto was perfectly capable of being a steamroller when he wanted to be.

Like hell he was going to offer to help and enable Yamamoto, though. Hayato resumed his seat at the table and wrapped his fingers around his cup of tea while the rain continued to thud against the window and it started to get dark. Yamamoto didn't say anything about it, anyway, though he kept up a meaningless stream of patter about classes and baseball and Hayato didn't even know what else. It wasn't really important, anyway, so he tuned it out to watch the way Yamamoto shuffled pans and bowls and ingredients and knives, breading the pork and heating up a pot of oil to fry it before setting it aside and turning to his other ingredients to do things which were more arcane, at least as far as Hayato was concerned. Yamamoto clearly knew what he was doing, though, because every move he made was precise, with no motion wasted. That was one of the most maddening things about him, that he did everything so effortlessly, whether it was swinging a baseball bat or a sword or just whisking an egg in a bowl, like the whole world was his natural element.

But Hayato tried not to let himself dwell on that, since it was Yamamoto and that was just the way he was. Instead he just watched the way Yamamoto's fingers gripped the knife and the way his knuckles flexed under his skin as he stirred a pot, and the way the sleeves of his yukata fell back from his wrists when he reached up to the top shelf of a cupboard to pull down a pair of bowls, just about the time it was getting truly dark outside.

Hayato had never understood how some people could know how to time things in the kitchen so that everything came together at just the right time, so that all of the dishes were ready and hot like they were supposed to be. The handful of times he'd tried to prepare a meal for himself--a real one, not something that was based on cup ramen or something frozen--half the dishes had ended up done too soon and other things had taken way too long, until he'd gotten frustrated and shoved everything into the microwave willy-nilly, or just given up and ordered takeout. But Yamamoto had the knack, whatever it was, and arranged the pork and rice and vegetables in the bowls and topped off Hayato's cup from a freshly-brewed pot of tea, all without so much as breaking a sweat or the flow of his chatter.

He was definitely, _definitely_ the world's biggest girl, Hayato told himself, as Yamamoto slid into his seat and gestured at him. "Eat, eat! Don't let it get cold."

"Yeah, yeah," Hayato muttered and dug in. Yamamoto didn't even pretend that he wasn't watching--probably waiting for a verdict, Hayato supposed, and swallowed his mouthful. "It's not bad."

"Oh, good." Yamamoto beamed at him and took up his own chopsticks.

Yamamoto must have been getting as hungry as he was, because he didn't say much as they ate. Either that, or he'd run out of small talk, but the chances of the latter happening were so small as to be non-existent. That was fine by Hayato, since as far as he was concerned, silence was vastly underrated.

"Maybe you were right," Yamamoto said, when they'd finally emptied their bowls, and Hayato was eyeing the dregs of his tea doubtfully--people really read the future out of tea leaves? Really?

"Of course I was," Hayato told him, since that was an article of faith, regardless of the topic, and looked up from his tea leaves, waiting for Yamamoto to clarify what he'd meant.

"It probably _isn't_ going to let up till morning." Yamamoto was looking over Hayato's shoulder, at the back door--ah, the rain.

Now that he was thinking about it again, instead of the food, the roar of it sounded just as loud as it had been earlier. "I told you so," Hayato said, because it never did to pass up an opportunity to point that out. "You're too much of an optimist." And now he was going to have to walk home in the cold and the rain and the dark. Argh.

Yamamoto's eyes slid away from the door. "You sure you don't want to stay the night?" The question was friendly, casual even, but there was something lurking in Yamamoto's eyes that wasn't exactly either.

Hayato ignored it, resolutely. "No, I should--it's getting late, I really do need to go. Thanks for the dinner."

Every other time they'd done this little dance, that had been enough, and Yamamoto had let it go, although never without looking disappointed. This time, though--Hayato didn't know what it was that had gotten into Yamamoto, maybe it was a full moon or something--Yamamoto said, "Why not?"

It was such an unexpected twist to the usual conversation that Hayato forgot himself, and stared at Yamamoto blankly. "What do you mean, why not?"

"I mean why not?" Yamamoto stopped, and Hayato saw the quick rise and fall of his shoulders as he drew a breath, like he was preparing himself for something he was determined to see through to the end, no matter how bad it got. "Why not stay, when it's something that you want to do?" He stopped, and looked at Hayato, uncertainty showing in his eyes. "I mean--you _do_ want to stay, don't you?"

All he had to do was say _no_ and have done with it, and that would be the end of it. If he knew Yamamoto--and Hayato figured he probably did, after this many years--Yamamoto wouldn't bring it up again, because that was just how he was. And then this whole ridiculous farce of a courtship would finally be over, and they could get on with their lives. One quick, flat denial, and they'd be done.

And for some reason, Hayato couldn't make himself say it. And Yamamoto kept on just _looking_ at him, with that stupid uncertain, vulnerable look on his face, waiting for him to make up his mind, like he'd been doing all along.

"Fuck," Hayato said, angry at Yamamoto for forcing him into making a decision, and angrier at himself for not being able to man up enough to put an end to it already. "_Fuck_."

In a just world, Yamamoto would have made a stupid joke just then, something that would have given Hayato the excuse he needed to get truly, flamingly angry with him and then stomp out. But it wasn't a just world, which Hayato had already known damn well, and Yamamoto just gave him a brave look, like he was trying not to show how disappointed he was, and said, "Guess not, huh?" He dropped his eyes and stood, and began stacking the dishes. "I think I have a plastic bag for your clothes, if you want, or I could throw them in the wash and give them to you the next time I see you," he said, sounding practically normal, and took the dirty dishes to the sink. "Oh, and you should take my umbrella. Might not be a lot of good, but it's gotta be better than nothing."

He started scraping the bowls out, like the clatter of the dishes could make up for the barely perceptible way his shoulders were sagging.

"You're so stupid," Hayato told him, helplessly, watching him try to pretend that he was okay and still trying to take care of him, in spite of everything. "You're just--you're such an _idiot_."

Yamamoto's hands stilled, briefly, before he went back to scraping out the bowl. "Hah," he said, "yeah. Yeah, that's... hey, that's nothing new, right?"

It was the smile that did it. Hayato could have held out against the rest of it, Yamamoto being all stoic and generous and casual, like nothing was wrong at all, if only he hadn't tried to smile like it was all true. It stretched his mouth out in jagged angles that were too stiff to be natural, and didn't even come close to hitting his eyes.

"Damn it," Hayato said. "Just--damn it."

It really was a tiny apartment, and a matter of three steps from the table to the sink. Yamamoto stood there like he was frozen, even when Hayato seized a handful of yukata in his fist and gripped it. "I do want," he said, angry at himself for breaking down enough to say it. "I do, I--"

"Gokudera," Yamamoto said, over the rattle of the bowl dropping into the sink as he dropped it. The softness of his voice silenced Hayato. "Really?"

"Yes," Hayato said, unwillingly, as the sudden flare of hope dragged the confession out of him. "This is such a stupid, _stupid_ idea, you don't--"

He stopped when Yamamoto's fingers spread themselves against the corner of his jaw, warm against his cheek, and Yamamoto's thumb came to rest against the corner of his mouth. "I don't care about that," Yamamoto said.

"You should," Hayato said, as Yamamoto turned away from the sink and stepped into his space. "Really, you should, it's--"

"It's going to be fine," Yamamoto said, one long line of warmth pressed against Hayato now, and leaned in as he tilted Hayato's chin up with the subtlest of pressures. Then Yamamoto kissed him, lips moving against Hayato's, slow and sure and terribly, terribly persuasive. "Really, it will," he added, against Hayato's mouth, as he slid his other arm around Hayato's waist, and then kissed him again.

That didn't seem like it was an entirely fair line of argument, Hayato thought, dizzy with the stroke of Yamamoto's mouth against his, especially since it made it impossible for him to concentrate on marshalling his protests. "But--" he started, when Yamamoto drew back.

"I promise," Yamamoto said, low, and kissed him till Hayato couldn't even remember what his arguments had been, anyway. Then, when Hayato was breathless and dazed, he asked, with eyes that were full of hope, "So you'll stay?"

Hayato drew a shaky breath and uncurled his hand from Yamamoto's yukata to flatten it against Yamamoto's chest and the steady beat of his heart. "Yeah," he said, and watched Yamamoto's smile turn incandescent. "Yeah, I'll stay."

**end**

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